


Catechism

by Schemilix



Series: Blood and Gold [14]
Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:51:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schemilix/pseuds/Schemilix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My father's blood sheathes my sword. I am Meliadoul, the last Tengille."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catechism

You only struck me once; maybe you pretend it is because I was a good child who needed no further discipline but a stern word to keep in line. I was the girl who cut her hair short to better fit in the cowl of the order, I was the girl who trained with the blade until her hands were calloused like a man's, rode a chocobo like a man. I was she, that girl who would grow up not to be a woman or a mother but a knight, and I did it not out of obedience but desire.

But he - the young man standing tall in gold armour with his magicked blade and his mark of honour, it was he who followed from devotion. And he who failed, who needed to be cajoled or threatened along the path, to be poked until he did not slouch, to have his blade pushed this way or that. Who set his jaw and swore he could do anything, killing in the name of the Gods or just you, I dare not ask which.

The youngest Tengille, errant son, who I heard beg or apologise before you, who I defended from your savage desire to protect him from his own weakness. Maybe you pretend it was because I was a good child and he a poor one, but you would never go through me. And I with the heart of a lioness and my father's daughter would hate how I could never be harsh with him, my little brother. I would tend him and teach him and play his games, I would watch as he realised how much older I felt than he had grown, his impotent rage at the gap between us. He, still young, still blessed and foolish. He who burned his hands with the cursed blade you gave him, and wept bitterly because it would not take his pure heart.

Izlude, the boy who would not grow to be a man or a father, but never grow up at all. And at his lying grave I cried for what felt like the first time; I cursed a falsehood; I took up a sword in the wrong name.

Because of you. You, father - you who became more monster than man. Whose shoulders I stood on until I thought I could see the end of the world.  
Is it that is it hardly possible to hate a legend? Or is it only that I miss those I have lost, and would forgive anything to have you - all of you - back?


End file.
